Genius
by The Shrubbery
Summary: As a favor owed to the Headmaster of Finlay School for the Extraordinary-Minded, John offers Sherlock up to be the guidance counselor for the von Goethe dormitory. Five gifted children with brains as brilliant as Sherlock will prove difficult to 'counsel', though, especially with the occasional crime and social experiment/field trip. And Sherlock thought he'd never like children.


**A/N:** **Hey. Thanks for reading. I wuv you. :)**

**Um, traces of Johnlock in some chapters, maybe not in others, overall not too blatant.**

**I do hope you enjoy. xD**

* * *

"Was it Pamela Parfitt or Shirley Buckley last night?"

John walked out of the bathroom, hair impeccable, teeth freshly shined — as were his loafers — and jumper smoothed down. He looked suspicious at Sherlock before opening his mouth and interrupted by his flatmate before he could speak, "Your hair was combed, not brushed. We don't have combs here."

John sighed. "It was Pamela." He walked into the kitchen and put the tea kettle on.

Sherlock clucked his teeth. "Too bad she's only nineteen."

John sighed again. "Is she, now?" he said, a little exasperated. "She said she was twenty eight."

Sherlock flicked his paper and looked up. "In nine years, perhaps."

John didn't bother replying and opened the refrigerator, hoping to find a little food. "You did do the grocery shopping when I told you last night?"

"When you left for Pamela?"

John rolled his eyes and struggled to keep his tone not sarcastic. "Yes, when I left for Pamela."

"If she were two years younger, it'd be statutory rape," Sherlock said, flipping the page uninterestedly. He frowned when his eyes glossed over a particularly scandalous article about an American celebrity.

"She says she's twenty eight," John said, searching the cupboards as, evidently, Sherlock had _not_ gone grocery shopping last night. It was more or less a futile request whenever John bothered to ask. Sherlock wouldn't know what to buy anyway, he thought in an attempt to comfort himself. Probably stock up on salt for possible wounds.

"Didn't you have an appointment today?" Sherlock asked, jumping the subject. John checked his watch and winced. He shut all the cupboard doors.

"_We_ had an appointment — why didn't you remind me earlier?" John slipped on his outer coat and snatched Sherlock's newspaper away, causing the tall man to pout just the tiniest bit. "Come on, then, we'll get breakfast on the way."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said quietly as he obliged to his friend's urgings.

**OoOoOoOoO**

The Finlay School for the Extraordinary-Minded sat in the quiet countryside far, far away from the normal commutes of the hustle and bustle of England. It was undisturbed, surrounded by lush farmland and swooping gusts of fresh air. There was a small family of farmers who were well ingratiated into the school and they took care of crops and feeding the children that attended Finlay, in exchange for generous amounts of money and the occasional workhand when a boy got too raucous.

Finlay was an old school but only recently more public, accepting less than one hundred gifted youngsters a year whose families intended to nurture the genius inside of them. The teachers that taught were reigned in from the Headmaster from favors owed from long ago. The children were raised in an accelerated environment with others like themselves and were destined to become the new Einsteins and Newtons of the world. Plucked from infanthood, some of them never even visited their parents on holidays — some of them never had any. Because regardless of heritage, wealth, or appearances, the Headmaster always took in someone who was Finlay material.

Finlay material meant prodigies, geniuses, and the like. Frequently, they were under appreciated or had over-inflated egos and it was difficult to even out but after the twelve years of instruction they gave, the ending results was always more than satisfactory. The Headmaster had thousands of requests and pleads and interviews every day — _please, my child is gifted — please, send us your graduates — please, please, please —  
_

He was tired, frankly. He needed a vacation.

The Headmaster was balding man, nearing fifty, with brimmed spectacles and a tendency to slouch when he was uninterested, which was common. His chiropractor had told him on several accounts that he should keep his posture straight, but Tobias Finlay had never had any trouble when he was a young boy and he didn't expect anything to happen now.

Tobias had met John Watson a number of years ago in med school, Tobias being a senior and a very brilliant student and John being equally brilliant but an inexperienced freshman. Tobias had mentored for about six months before he had a heart attack and was shipped back to Scotland for his family to take care of him. He had recovered, but not soon enough to spend any more time with his prodigee, which he had always regretted, to this day.

And so, it was entirely by coincidence that Tobias happened to stumble upon John's blog and he had rung him up to ask if he'd please visit him today. He had a favor to ask and John, being ever the polite man, had agreed.

As long as Sherlock could come along.

**OoOoOoOoO**

"Is he homosexual?" Sherlock asked on the cab, watching John eat his muffin, then watched him spray it on the back of the cabbie's seat.

Wiping his mouth, John turned with indignation in his eyes towards Sherlock. "You're asking a lot of disturbing questions today, aren't you, Sherlock?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

The cabbie was stiff in his seat, turning the wheel in jerky motions. The two men in the back had been at it like this since they got in ten minutes ago and they still had a ways to go until they reached Cumberland. He didn't know why exactly he was uncomfortable - he had plenty of nasty, crude, or inappropriate clients before, but these two had a certain aura that made him shiver.

Sherlock knew the cabbie was uncomfortable, but the boring humdrum in his brain was already killing him, as was the trip's necessity in itself. He was struggling not to make any theories, yet, on this case, but it must be terribly interesting if John hadn't bothered telling him now and he — wanted — to — know.

"How'd you come about to knowing Pam was nineteen, anyway?" John asked.

Sherlock twitched and moved in his seat a little bit, the pit of impatience gnawing at his insides. He was running through his Mind Palace, throwing books and tables on the ground and bashing parlors and turning on all the faucets. _Something must be worth thinking about!_

Absentmindedly, he replied, "I saw her ID."

John burst out laughing, which momentarily paused Sherlock's mental tantrum. His eyes snapped to attention. "What is so funny?"

"Nothing," John said, calming himself down. "It was just such a simple explanation." Sherlock said nothing and presumed looking out the window and dying inside.

There was silence for ten more minutes. The cabbie contemplated dropping the two of them off at the train station. He decided against it.

"I suppose I'll have to end it with her," John said, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his coat pocket.

Sherlock tapped on the window rhythmically, his breath fogging up the glass. "That is, if she doesn't end it first," Sherlock said, mumbling. "God knows how many men she's slept with while she was dating you. She has a thing for military men, I know it. One of them's Navy, probably an Air Force or two..."

John groaned. "She seemed like such a nice girl, too."

"But you aren't surprised," Sherlock said.

"No, Pam was great in bed, but frankly difficult to hold an in-depth —"

"_What is the case about?_" Sherlock interrupted, finally. His breath was ragged and he seemed shaken. "For Heaven's sake, I've been sitting here engaging in meaningless chatter for twenty minutes already, why don't you just get down to the point?!"

"The case?" John said, bewildered.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. "Is it murder? Serial murder? Arson?"

John began laughing again.

"Oh Sherlock, it's not a case," John said, chuckling. "You're going to be a dormitory counselor."

Sherlock said nothing, turned away from John. John cocked a grin, a bit amused that Sherlock had been so agitated and was now even more so. But —

"_Oy, sir, don't get out of the cab when it's moving!"_

**OoOoOoOoO**

John and Sherlock arrived at Finlay mostly wet (the latter, because he had rolled out onto the damp grass and the former, because he had been taken down by the latter) and both very cranky. The Headmaster had sensed that from the instant they had walked into his office.

"Oh, John! So nice to see you!" Tobias greeted, patting his long-old friend on the back lightly and taking his and his companion's coat onto the rack. "I don't recall it raining today. Unless you took a tumble in Prowler?"

John grimaced and stuck an accusing thumb at Sherlock's direction. He sat down in one of the fine, plump chairs in front of the fireplace and said, "My flatmate's barmy, is all."

Sherlock stepped up towards Tobias and the two examined each other. Tobias was very presentable, with his freshly pressed suit and trousers just from the dry cleaner's. Sherlock, on the other hand, had his curls in messy bunches and his clothes slightly soiled with mud and dirt. John was embarrassed for him, already.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced himself, holding out a hand. "Pleasure."

"Tobias Finlay," Tobias replied, taking the hand and shaking it with a firm grip. "Pleasure's mine."

The two stood, hand in hand, staring squarely at each other. John could feel their peripheral visions sweeping across the other's body, picking up traces of morning activities and habits and hobbies.

John sighed, a frequent gesture he practiced a lot recently. He had hoped this wouldn't happen, because he had come to two conclusions of how these men would react to each other. Both brilliant, they could either embrace each other in common intelligence or they could have a taut dislike towards one another.

Sherlock bristled. Tobias gave a smile.

This time, John's sigh was of relief. Sherlock, though clearly discomforted by Tobias, was trying to at least be placid and pleasant. Tobias seemed to have taken a general liking towards him, though John couldn't imagine why (most people were put off by him, as in the case of the cabbie, or generally hateful), and John was simply relieved because this would make the whole job a whole lot easier.

"I'm not homosexual," Tobias said, taking a seat next to John on a separate chair.

"I wouldn't have minded," Sherlock said, taking the seat on the other side of John.

An awkward silence followed which John broke with a clap of his hands. "So, gentlemen, shall we get down to business?"

"Sherlock already said yes," Tobias said, arising from his seat and returning to his chair behind the desk. "So, you can go on down to the West Wing, _von Goeth_ section."

Sherlock gave him a terse nod and proceeded to retrieve his coat and leave the room. Stunned, John followed in awe of the completely silent mental conversation that seemed to have happened before him without him knowing.

"Do you even know what the bloody hell you agreed to?" John asked, struggling to move quickly with Sherlock's long strides.

"You want me to be dormitory counselor of a gifted bunch of children - four or five of them because they're a new addition and a proper counselor has not yet been found," Sherlock said, long legs stretched out. "And I agreed."

"I thought you hated children," John said.

"I do."

**OoOoOoOoO**

There were three boys and two girls, all roughly the same age.

They were loitering in the common room, the girls chattering in an animated discussion and two of the boys reading books, the other having away with the piano. The girls were pretty, one with almost silvery locks of transparent golden hair and sharp eyes and the other with sweet features, caramel colored hair, and a round face. One boy had glassy blue eyes, blind, and was listening quiet to a dark-skinned boy with a cap on a bald head. The boy on the piano had fair hair and a feminine face, his appearance looking increasing similar to the blonde girl.

All five of them snapped to attention when Sherlock and John arrived.

"Was it fun when you fell off the cab in Prowler?" the blonde girl asked, merely an innocent inquiry and not an accusation.

"Was it fun when you fell out of Heaven?" the dark-skinned boy said, edging in closer to the girl. "'Cause it's gonna get fun for m..." She shoved him away with a roll of the eyes he feigned hurt.

Ignoring him, the girl curtsied for the two men and then offered a delicate hand. "Rosalind Sherry. Nine." She paused for a moment eyeing John. "And I can assume that because your companion is well suited to your mannerisms, that I may also share my Oasis with him?"

"Oasis?" John asked, looking to Sherlock.

"Go on," Sherlock said, with a nod. "To one of young age, both name and age are of great importance and to a gifted one, I can presume that your 'Oasis' is, as well."

"It's a web. With droplets of water."

Sherlock gave a look of understanding, but John only furrowed his brows. Rosalind waited for him to come to understanding, but she was impatient and stepped back to talk quietly with the other girl. "It's like my mind palace," Sherlock explained in John's ear.

John marveled at how the young girl had her own mind palace — and a web! How creative. She was so much like Sherlock, that sharp look, the impatience, the slightly acerbic and condescending manner of which she spoke to others, but she was only a child and John could forgive her for that.

The dark-skinned boy, who had recovered from the earlier verbal assault, spoke up. "I'm Nigel Wilkinson. Also nine. Trains and stations and routes."

"Clearly a juvenile individual," Rosalind said, snickering. Nigel shot her a lazy smile and she gave him a glare.

Sherlock could tolerate this bantering, at least it wasn't plain _stupid_, like he had expected. The children were well behaved and surprisingly intelligent. Rosalind was obviously incredibly acute and Nigel, though an annoying try-hard, wasn't the typical stupid.

Rosalind, holding the other girl's hand, urged her friend forward. "Introduce yourself, then."

"Gemma Friedter, eight years." the little girl said, innocent eyes shyly looking up. "_Enchanté_."

John smiled warmly at her and bent down to kiss her small hand in knightly fashion. "_Tout le plaisir est pour moi._" She giggled and shot her girl friend a glance that meant they had plenty to talk about tonight.

"And what's your Oasis?" John asked, already warming up to the girl. She seemed so nice and so sweet.

"A mortuary and its housing bodies," she said, her tone betraying nothing, as if she were simply reciting something off a grocery list. John flinched, as if slapped, because he had not expected such a morbid statement from such a gentle girl. If anything, he expected flowers and roses and rainbow-farting unicorns.

But looks were always deceiving, John knew that very well.

"And who are you?" John said, bending down next to the boy on the piano. He couldn't have been a day over five, with his large green eyes and his chubby baby fat clinging to his cheeks. He bore a resemblance to Rosalind, and John suspected they were brother and sister. John had the urge to pick him up and toss him up into the air, or maybe pinch his cheeks like all those bird-like aunts around Christmas time.

"Andrew Dumore. I'm seven, but I'm turning eight in a month," he said. "You can call me Andy. I've got a skyscraper for an Oasis."

He had an American accent - a transfer student of some sorts that had only recently come, Sherlock deduced - but his voice mimicked John's lilting British one when he spoke. Easily impressionable, adaptable.

"And that's Talfryn Jones," Rosalind said, jutting her thumb back at the last boy. "He doesn't talk much and he's blind. Ten; the oldest one here. I think his Oasis is a symphony."

He was very tall, already, and very lanky. His limbs look like they were attached to his body against his own will. Slender fingers, pale skin, and glassy blue eyes. He did not say anything, but observed what he could very quietly.

John licked his lips, grinned and then said, "Well, it certainly is a pleasure to meet all of you. I'm John Watson and this is my flatmate and your guidance counselor, Sherlock Holmes."

"My Oasis is a mind palace, if you were wondering."

The girls and boys nodded their heads approvingly.

"And I haven't an Oasis, I'm really quite ordinary, but I'll be staying with you all, as well," John finished.

"Don't deprecate yourself, John, you're really quite helpful," Sherlock said. "He's an army doctor from Iraq, had a psychosomatic limp, quite admirable and admiring, and will listen to your problems if you have any." Sherlock took his coat and flung it onto a couch. "Let's start with a simple exercise. Can anyone tell me what John had for breakfast?"

"Muffin," Rosalind said immediately. She pointed to John's jumper, "You've still got some crumbs, in fact."

"Banana nut," Nigel added.

"No liquid to drink," Gemma said. "But that's because you were going to be late - did you eat on the cab here?"

"He did," Sherlock confirmed. "And what did I have?"

"Nothing," Rosalind, Nigel, Gemma, and Andy said in unison.

A trembling baritone piped up in the back. "Wrong. A nicotine patch and some tea to ward off a headache."

It was Talfryn. Sherlock smirked. "Precisely so, sir. How'd you notice?"

Talfryn, fingers composed in a temple-like fashion, thought before speaking in his low voice. "You're Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. You have cases, but not one right now, clearly, because you've bothered to come down to Finlay to be a guidance counselor — so you're really bored. Nicotine _has_ to be a hobby, then, but you won't smoke, I can't smell it on you. Therefore, nicotine patches. I took a little guess on the headache, since that it is a common side effect, and because you winced (I can hear your cuffs brushing against your pants sharply) when Rosalind raised her voice, which irritated you. Tea is classic, especially because John apparently enjoys it so much, so one of the two of you made some for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I made it for myself. Earl Grey."

"Good for you," Talfryn said, slinking back to his recliner and closing his eyes. He was clearly no longer interested.

Gemma tugged on John's hand and led him up a short flight of stairs, talking to him about life around the von Goethe dorms. "I'll show you to your room, Mr. Watson." John sent a look to Sherlock that said, '_be good_' and then let himself be taken away by the little girl.

Sherlock was still standing and he was still observing. There was a thrumming in his temples and his gut had discomfort accumulated in it. He could remember many things of his childhood, though he chose not to, because it had been such a terrible time. His nickname had been 'Dicklock' and he was beaten and bullied, locked in cupboards and closets, thrashed and abused. He had therefore turned into the cold man he was today, but these children, despite the similar attributes, seemed so relaxed. So pleasant.

They had a place to belong.

And Sherlock couldn't help but feel very jealous of that. He had never belonged anywhere. Normal kids had hated him, older smart kids had disliked him, and adults liked to discredit him and underestimated him. He was a little freak. Discounting Mycroft and Mummy, Sherlock hadn't had friends or even companions.

He wanted to protect this safe little haven. Five children.

He could handle five children, couldn't he?

* * *

**Ending's a bit abrupt, but I hope I got my question across. :)  
**

**I also did make up the name of the town (Cumberland - though they're might be a Cumberland already in existence, this one is a country town), and we all know what that's named after.  
**

**So, review, review, review! I'll love you if you do!  
**


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